Dream Brother
by StreakedLemur
Summary: Younger Lancelot has nightmares about the things he is forced to do for Rome. Arthur is his comfort
1. Default Chapter

He didn't like the dreams he had after the fighting, it was said that a warrior who has bad dreams is a warrior who was ashamed of what he was doing. A person's dreams told you how well they accepted their roles. Maybe that's why he was creeping through the cold outpost halls three hours after they had all fallen asleep. The Roman Knight, Lancelot, was afraid of sleeping alone in the dark. He was afraid of the nightmares he had after every battle.  
There was only one person who made him feel safe.  
He had walked down this hallway so many times before through the nine years he had been here. Half his service, he was a man now, had been for a while… but he was still younger than Arthur, still smaller than him and so much in need of his commanders comfort. For that was all it was to Arthur, a commander doing his best to soothe his troubled charge, it was duty.  
Lancelot didn't care about that though, he didn't care that Arthur only did it out of pity. He found comfort in whatever he received from the older man, even if it was just a warm bed and a platonic pat on the head, you lived to appreciate everything in this life. Everything.

Arthur didn't really sleep after battles anymore, not that he could remember himself ever sleeping after battles. Everything was still fresh in his mind, the panting of his men, the screams of the dying- their lost comrades. None of the Knights had died today in the skirmish, but he took stock of all the casualties anyways. Tristan had received a harsh gash to the upper bicep, Bors was limping from jamming his knee in a fall and Galahad looked one more year older in only an hour.  
The only light in his room was the dying fire, his form motionless on his bed, unclothed and uncovered. It was awfully cold outside, but he hadn't cooled down since the fight, it must be the fires of hell licking at his heels.  
The door creaked slightly as it opened, causing Arthur to grip the handle of a small blade under his pillow, eyes focusing sharply on the figure closing the door carefully. Taller, lanky as a spring colt and only partially dressed. His heart skipped a beat, like it always did when this happened. Nothing ever happened, nothing should ever happen – it wouldn't be appropriate for anything to happen- but whenever he saw that figure in the door of his room, or crouched over his bedroll in camp, his heart skipped a beat.

"Arthur…" The words were whispered softly, a vulnerable sound from barely parted lips, but he waited to see if the other man was awake to do anything else.  
The form on the bed shifted, turning towards him, shifting the shadows from the fire's coals enough to let the young Knight know that the other wore no clothing this night. The shadows flickered across his commander's tanned skin like a gold serpent slithering through the shade of an oasis.  
"Lancelot, your dreams?" The words weren't impatient or ridiculing like they should be, so many other commanders would have beaten down this weakness so early on, stamped out the raw edge of humanity in the boy's soul…  
He nodded and stepped hurriedly to the bed, purposely not looking at the other man's physique, "Always, they do not let me rest…" He stopped at the edge, eyes on the other man's face, pleading permission for just this one last time.  
"The floor must be cold," Arthur said finally, watching the dark expression on Lance's features turn into a smile of relief. It made him wish he were clothed; propriety's last demand would be that he should be clothed at the very least, "do you hate it here so much that your sins are played in your sleep?"  
Lancelot crawled over the other man to the other side of the bed, waiting till he had reached down and pulled up the blankets over himself before answering, "Arthur, my people don't have sins, you know that… our gods judge us differently than your angels"  
"They judge your actions here as wrong, then" he controlled his intake of breath as the younger man slipped his arms around Arthur's waist, waiting for the commander to turn on his back before resting his head on the other's shoulders.  
"No, Arthur."  
"Then why do you have these dreams, Lancelot?" One of his arms slid to gently rub the young Knight's back, the other hand resting on his own stomach.  
There was a sigh, whispering across his bare chest then the painful pause that was always present at this moment, "This isn't my fight, I don't believe in your cause. This land is not mine; there is nothing here that is mine."  
Then there was silence, the younger one just lying there stubbornly, breath hitching as he fought to control tears he wished would never come. Finally Arthur's hand stopped its comforting motion as he fell asleep.  
Lancelot lay there away, eyes open and staring at the light playing along Arthur's skin; the light was fading even more, till all he saw was the dark form he was clinging to, feeling the other man breathing in and out deeply in a calm and peaceful sleep. This was where he stayed; he was trying to urge himself to do something more than just lay there. He would do it for hours some times, telling his hands to move or his voice to return so that he could say something more. But he never did and he finally just gave in to sleep for a few desperate hours before slipping off away from the older man's bed before dawn woke the rest of camp. He would swear to himself that he would never return to Arthur's bed ever again, during those morning hours; would volunteer to go out scouting with Tristan to get away from that crawling desperate feeling that he was giving something up that he would never, ever get.

Arthur would always wait for him to fall asleep, faking sleep himself to give the prideful young man a chance to sort out his mind. Lancelot's touch and breath always threatened to stir him in a way he couldn't allow, for the sake of the boy's heart. He thought Lance was asleep already, shifting slightly to lower his own head to kiss the boy's temple gently, "Lancelot, I would die before I let your soul be trapped here"

Only problem was, Lancelot wasn't yet asleep. Time had passed and his breathing had slowed to the point that it made Arthur think he was, but those words and that kiss pushed him past his own fear to tilt his head up to meet the other man's lips.


	2. CLANG

CLANG 

It was the sound of metal being brought down with great force onto another piece of metal. He wasn't a blacksmith, never really wanted to know more than he needed to keep his weapons repaired and battle ready. This was done more for him then for his weapons though - he wasn't even working with them- he just had a heated sheet of steel and a big hammer and he was planning on beating the crap out of it. He had no shirt on and sparks were flying up and burning into his skin, but he didn't care.

CLANG 

He was far to prideful, far to easy to offend at times and perhaps a tad bit hot headed – all this he had been told, but he was upset, damn it! Wasn't he worth any time? Wasn't he worth acknowledgement or a look? Sometimes he was the entire world and other times it was as if he stood there invisible and unmissed. It hurt more than he would ever admit, more then he could really justify with words.

CLANG 

He usually didn't like pain, cringed away from the chance when he wasn't angry, drunk or in the heat of battle. So he seemed brave most of the time to people, only those who knew him intimately knew how much it scared him. He really wasn't as brave a Knight as others would expect. But he was angry at the moment, so the pain of the heavy hammer tearing his shoulder muscles and the stinging burn of the sparks searing into his skin soothed him.

TWANG 

That wasn't right….

Looking down at the metal he realized that because it was still malleable while he was hitting the same spot over and over again, he had completely warped it. Wrecked it, he could hit it in a different place, but that wasn't the point. Seeing that dented and broken sheet slowly fading from red drained the anger out of him, causing him to drop the hammer on the floor and glance down to his chest with a sigh.

"Fuck it"

At least he wasn't bleeding; he was just going to be in a lot of discomfort for the next couple days. With a sigh he turned to the fire and closed the door so as to put it out and prevent any undue accidents before making his way out of the Smithy hut and back to his own room. He barely slept in this place anymore but tonight he was going to, he had nowhere else to go.

The bed had been cold and lonely that night, not that Arthur had much of a chance to sleep in it. He was kept up till the far reaches of night were loosing their hold before he finally managed to stumble back to his room. He nearly panicked when he noticed that the bed was empty, till he remembered that Lancelot had gone out with Tristan to do some scouting. It caused him worry, they were going north of the wall overnight but he knew how touchy that subject was, so he hadn't said anything.

Liar.

He had asked Lancelot not to go and had not received an answer. He could have commanded it but he knew he would have a very pissy Knight for several days afterwards.  
It was his worry that had him up only three hours later and standing on the wall watching Tristan ride back.

Tristan rode back alone.

His heart froze in its place; he could feel it hanging here in his chest even as he ran down the stairs of the outpost and towards the approaching rider.  
"Where is he?"

Tristan sat there for a moment, blinking at his commander without comprehension, "Arthur?"  
"What happened to Lancelot?" Arthur snapped his hands up and dragged the man down off his horse, only to get a knife pressed lightly to his throat.

" I've been away all night, I wouldn't know."

Arthur growled and pushed the smaller man back, " He went out with you!"

Tristan put his knife away as he stumbled back, shaking his head, "You asked him to stay, so he stayed for you."

"What do you mean he stayed? He wasn't in the bar all night and he definitely wasn't in bed when I got there this morning."

"Where were YOU all night, Arthur?" there was a sly grin and a quiet shake of the bird handlers head before he lead his horse into the stables and tack room.

The commander just stood there, watching the other man walk away with his head tilted, "I was working…"

It hurt more in the morning. He hadn't slept very well that night, it wasn't only the loneliness or silence that came with it, it was the pain scattered across his chest and arms, the glowing red spots of pain that kept him from moving at the moment. He had also had nightmares again, he hadn't fought a battle in a couple of weeks- but it had been so long that he had slept by himself that he had been assaulted by horrible images whenever he closed his eyes.

The sun was rising now, warming up his room and sending him into a sleepy and peaceful sort of lull until his door came flying open with a loud bang.

"What are you doing here!" Arthur was standing in the door, breathing through his nostrils like an enraged bull and watching Lancelot lazily open his eyes.

"Trying to sleep. Go away…" He kept the blanket up around his shoulders, arms underneath, masking the marks over his skin. He knew that he'd get an earful for that as well and he didn't quite want to fight right now. He just wanted peace.

"I thought you had gone with Tristan!" his commander stalked into the room, shutting the door firmly behind him, " where were you last night?"

"Here."

"Why?"

"Cause it's my bedroom, you generally sleep in your bedroom."

"You sleep in MY room!"

"When you're there, yes. I don't see the point in sleeping in your cold bed, seeing as how you're the brave Roman commander, it's bigger than mine. It's pointless for just one person."

"This is NOT about the size of my bed, Lancelot!"

The other Knight just frowned and closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath, "no its about you being a typical Roman asshole, Arthur. Leave me alone, I want to sleep"

"You serve Rome, Lancelot"

"Yes, for just five more years and then I will serve no one. I never was Roman and I never will be Roman, you're all a bunch of self involved inconsiderate pricks."

"I am still your commander, you will show me respect" Arthur frowned at the other man, he wanted to walk over to his lover and shake the Knight till his eyes opened again, but he didn't, he just turned around, " When you're out of this mood, come find me. Until then, I only want to see you when I order it."

And he left with the slamming of a door which caused Lancelot to open his eyes to stare painfully at the ceiling.

"Five new bloody dispatches to be delivered to more southern outposts, all high importance… I don't understand it" Galahad said, looking down at the five sealed scrolls on the table, "Arthur is a stickler for protocol, but he's never written this many reports."

"It's probably because him and Lancelot are having a bit of a spat," Tristan grinned as he approached, dancing a knife over his fingers, "though that only happened this morning..."

"They're fighting? I don't think I've ever seen the two of them fight… argue, yes… but not fight." Galahad said carefully, looking over to the knife wielding Knight curiously, "who do you think will win?"

Tristan shook his shaggy head at that, offering a cold smile and a bit of a shrug, "its not who will win, oh pure one, but who will break first."

"Who's breaking what?" a surly tone came from behind the two of them, making Galahad jump a mile- Tristan only turned around to shrug to Lancelot, "We're discussing the dispatches. You think we should break them up between messengers?"

Lance frowned and shifted uncomfortably beneath his leather shirt, burns really chaffed a great deal, "No, I'll take them all."

"You know Arthur likes keeping us close to the fort in case the Woad's come a-calling" Galahad said carefully at the other man, glancing down to the scrolls, "what if we need you?"

"I will not be missed, runt." Lancelot scowled at the blonde Knight, grabbing the scrolls and shaking his head, "and I don't give a flying fuck what Arthur wants."

Tristan grinned as he walked away, offering a shrug and looking at a very shocked Galahad, "What?"

"Why are you grinning? Arthur could have him killed for that. I've heard of Roman commanders that have done so for less."

"Arthur would not, oh innocent one. He is more like us than he would care to admit," Tristan grinned again at that, "and I'm grinning because it means more woads for me to kill, Lancelot always takes so many with his two little knives"

Blood… and screaming, crying people… so much blood. He knew it was a dream, he always knew it was a dream, but he couldn't ever wake from these ones until the dream let him go.   
He didn't believe that dreams held any sort of power over him, or that they meant anything. They were just dreams, things that brought his worse deeds to light and made him relive things he'd rather of forgotten, but just dreams. He found peace in fighting, in using the concrete reality of his two blades. When he was fighting, it was him doing the fighting, just him- and that was what he wanted. He could escape the reasons and the foes for those brief moments that he was confronting them. His world was based in cold, hard facts and realism, he refused to do any dreaming or admit that anything or person controlled his fate but him.

He didn't like the blood though, nor the death. A needless death, he would fight for Arthur because the commander had earned his respect, he would fight for Rome because of a pact made by his ancestors, generations ago, but he saw his own people when he fought the woads.

That was why his dreams were so horrible; in them he was killing his own people. Usually, anyways; this dream was different, very different and so much more frightening because of that fact. He was fighting with the Woads, against another army… he saw his brothers – Arthur's Knights- falling and he could do nothing. He was not even fighting, just sitting astride his horse on a hill above the battle… unable to go forwards.

Arthur turned around and looked to him, raising his hand and motioning for him to come forwards as a larger warrior loomed behind the Roman commander. Lancelot screamed and kicked his mount forwards mercilessly, knowing it would be too late; far too late, because even as he descended the hill with both swords already drawn, the warrior's weapon was descending into Arthur's chest.

Arthur was smiling and looking the happiest he'd ever seemed, blood flowing over his lips as Lancelot approached.

Lancelot woke in cold sweat, sitting up and staring at the dead fire. His horse whickered at him in the night as he sat there gasping for breath. He had been gone 14 days now, returning from the south and his last delivery, he could have been in the outpost now. It wasn't very far away, he just decided to spend one more night out though…. because he would have been approaching after dark and the gates would not be opened once the sun fell from the sky.

"I can't sleep anymore, can you?" he said softly, looking over to his horse.

Another whicker and the sound of a hoof scraping the ground was all he needed to stand and pack up camp to begin the journey back to the outpost, "we'll be there in time for breakfast"

To him the sight was the most beautiful this world had yet shown him, Lancelot – and he knew it was Lancelot in the pit of his stomach- approaching the fort with the rising sun at his back, casting an almost dreamlike feeling to the situation. He saw Lancelot look up finally, saw him pause as he realised that Arthur was watching, saw the horse be urged to pick up speed for the last leg of the journey. When he heard the gates begin to open, turned and descended to meet his wayward Knight.

"Lancelot…"

The rider slid off his mount and turned towards the other man, tilting his head carefully, "you're alright."

Arthur blinked, stepping towards Lancelot as a stable hand led the man's horse into the stables, "of course I am, and you were the one who's been gone for a fortnight"

"I had a dream…" Lance frowned slightly, running his eyes over the other man, voice lowering, and "just last night."

"One of your nightmares?" Arthur paused, letting his own voice get quieter, even though they were again alone in the courtyard, "You had to fight?"

"No, it was different," he raised his hand to run his fingers across his commander's cheek, "I'm sorry."

Arthur leaned into the caress, closing his eyes partially, "no, you do not have to apologize, we were both wrong. What happened in your dream?"

"Something I'll never, ever let happen as long as I am still breathing." Lancelot offered him a bit of a smile, patting his cheek softly, "I would die before I let your soul be trapped here, Arthur."


	3. Blood in the water

Blood in the water… he had seen that before- a couple times if he were being honest- but one time in particular that stood out. The one death he had loved executing, he didn't like killing, he was just depressingly good at it. This death, Arthur didn't know about-could never know about-it was a task he had taken one night when his commander was otherwise engaged.

He was sure Arthur would hate him if the story ever came out, not that he thought it would; that ship had long ago sailed. So why was he thinking about that now of all times, as he washed the blood from his battle worn body.

The water then had turned black with the Roman's blood and other bodily fluids, the smell had been horrible. The man had been horrible, truly horrible. But he had been killed from behind, the way a coward would kill someone. Lancelot wasn't supposed to be a coward.

He had lost Arthur today, maybe that was it. He had felt that the other man was slipping through his fingers ever since they saved that Roman family, ever since they saved those Woads. The journey back-their freedom- had been so long in coming. But it had happened, Dagonet had died today.

One of his brothers had died beneath the snowy and cold waters of this ancient, unforgiving land that wasn't their own. Lancelot was a Roman fighter no longer, he was Sarmatian, he was free and he was going home. Arthur wasn't though, Arthur was staying- for this land that they had fought in for so long, for that woman who had captured his heart.

He had watched Arthur follow her into the trees the first night, had arisen himself and listened to the conversation with the Woad leader, Merlin.

Arthur was staying and Lancelot was leaving.

He had not expected it to turn out this way, he didn't know how he had expected it to turn out, but it wasn't this way. He didn't even get a goodbye, just a few scattered angry words that he had tried to take back. He had even approached the door to take back, but that was when his heart had shattered. After all, there was someone else in Arthur's bed tonight.  
He hated her. Lancelot had hated her since he saw her, since Arthur had seen her; since Arthur fell in love with her.

Woad.

Woman.

Lover.

Those words used to mean so much and now they meant so little.

This is why he thought of that death, the secret that lay between him and his former commander. This is why he was in the Roman baths with the lights as low as possible, no servants in there, not paying attention to the form that had slipped into the room behind him, a blade glinting in the remaining lamp light.

It had not been her name that Arthur had called out tonight, his eyes had been closed and his lips had brushed across her shoulder, but he spoke someone else's name and opened his eyes to watch her in such a confused manner that she merely kissed him and watched him fall asleep. It wasn't just her that he loved.

The other was in front of her now, sitting alone in the bath, unmoving, with his head ducked and breathing painful.

His throat beneath her cold blade now, bringing him to swift attention.

"Bitch…"  
"I should say the same of you, Lancelot."  
" You plan on killing me?"

She watched him for a moment, keeping the blade pressed firmly to his skin before answering, "You hate me."

"What does that matter?"

"You love him."

His expression was that of something broken, after he had been freed this afternoon, his voice loosing its anger, "Again, what does that matter now. He's chosen you."

Lancelot saw her pause at his words, the blade shaving up his skin, closer to his jaw. Then he saw her smile, felt the softness of her hair caress his face as she shook her head, "No… no he didn't. Not just me. But why can't a man that great choose us both?"

Then she straightened and left the room as silently as she had entered, leaving Lancelot there in water that was suddenly very cold.

It's funny how things change, people choose one way when they could have chosen another one. Such small and seemingly inconsequential choices could destroy the world or save lives. They are so small though, taking only a moment worth of time before it is done, that even the person making these choices would not know how different the world could have been, if only they had stopped to smell just one more of the new blooming flowers growing in a field.

Guinevere had stayed up all that night, seeing that broken expression in Lancelot's eyes whenever she closed hers, instead of sleeping with Arthur till he awoke. She wouldn't have left him to search out the other man if he had called out her name and she would have been just a tiny bit more aware, would have fought a couple more Saxons and ultimately engaged the wrong one.

Lancelot would not have gone back to Arthur if Guinevere had still been there-if she had never come to kill him-. He would have never crept into Arthur's room if he hadn't stayed awake on that fateful night so long ago and if he had never known about Arthur's love. He would have waited until the sun had risen in the sky and his commander's form was silhouetted against the morning mist rising to gather his weapons and stand against the invading Saxons. Instead, when Arthur awoke to the grim knowledge that this would be his last day- and his beautiful Knights would be riding away from him- Lancelot was sitting on a chair, watching him.

"Its time to dance, isn't it love?"

It was his dream; he could see it all in his mind. The Saxons beyond the wall- the woads their allies in this time- his lover sitting astride his battle charger watching the remaining knights canter into place besides the two of them. Arthur was supposed to die in his dream, if he sat back and watched him. Or him, if he fought. He didn't understand how the connections were made, but he was free this day- and so he would die free, die so that the other man could live.

The slaughter began with the pounding of horse hooves that any survivors would claim to be the beating of the hearts of demons and gods.

Something had changed today, Guinevere thought as she stood amongst the death and ruin of the battle. So many things had changed, but something wasn't quite right. The spirits were telling her this, that the world was different than it really should have been.  
"You fight alright, for a woad." the cocky, arrogant voice behind her broke through her introspection.

She understood then, turning to look at a dirty, bloody but healthy Lancelot and sheathed her blades, "You fight alright for a Roman mercenary."  
He glared at her for a moment, sheathing his own two swords, "I am Sarmatian today, Guinevere. This wasn't Rome fighting with you; this was Arthur and his men fighting with you."

"Aye, we are truly free today." Tristan said softly as he approached, still idly twirling his sword, "we start a new life."

Lancelot laughed at that, turning to the other man and slinging an arm over his shoulder, watching Guinevere thoughtfully, "Tristan doesn't really know the concept of life without death. He's the downer of the group"

"And Lancelot is the idiot."

Arthur paused as he approached the group of his knights speaking to Guinevere. He took count twice to be sure. They were all alive. The voice in the back of his head stubbornly listed off the others that had died before this day, but his Knights, the ones that were free- truly free- were all there in front of him.

"My brothers, we start a new world."


End file.
